


O father, my father.

by rodrigraphics



Series: Lone Wanderer Andrés [1]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrigraphics/pseuds/rodrigraphics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A paradox of an angsty teen, has trouble confronting death in his life, and his own feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Father's Society

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write actively, it's like a side hobby, very small and when I need to work different parts of my creative muscles
> 
> Critiques and comments, whatever and such, are welcome
> 
> Thanks for reading, my brainsoup ✌

It was early. Early morning hours specifically, 4 am. Months he had been outside, out of the vault. 4 months, 2 weeks. December, 28th, 2277. Christmas had passed, rereading empty past conversations, notes, anything for a simple reminder. Was a present to himself, aside from feeling sorry for himself of course.

His other present, an early one. Being his father, dying the previous week. The 19th. The scene playing itself over and over, a broken record upon others. He asked himself over and over, what he could have done, always upset with the answer. Nothing. He couldn’t do anything. Would he have done something, was a worse question, he didn’t want to know the answer to. 

He found his father, within 2 months of searching, luckily. Or unluckily. Maybe if he hadn’t become such a resource and mercenary of his own kind ; fucked off into the wastes, died young, drugs or alcohol poisoning, bludgeoned to death, sniped in the head, eaten by a super mutant, radiation, dehydration, suicide. Maybe his father would still be alive. Survivor's guilt, in the most loathsome of ways. 

“O captain, my captain.” empty words, spit into an empty space. 

The Citadel echoed, crumbling concrete, cracked, rusted beams skewered broken pieces. 

“It was our favorite movie, you told me, I reminded you of Neil. I didn’t get it, I didn’t see any of Neil in me. But I didn’t question you, why would I. Why would I.”

He curled up into a ball, laying against the cold concrete, nails digging into his arms.

“I thought I fit into Todd better.”

He sat up, wiping his tattered sleeve against his sniffling nose. The color of the sleeve had turned dull, the bright blue had become dirty, meshed with dirt and blood. He hadn’t cleaned it in so long. The texture dry, rough, and frayed from use. He revolted himself, in the oddest of ways. The cleanliness of clothes meaning more than his predatory hunger of ripping into a molerat for a late dinner.

“I’ll find my voice.”


	2. And he was fine with it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you handle yourself, in your most unforgiving and selfish ways ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Dogmeat as a girl in fo3, because of the puppies perk, other than that, there is nothing for me to say.
> 
> Enjoy scum bag teen angst and confusion.

7 am. The left side of his body sore from the solid ground. Shoulder bruised and aching, hip bone digging into the floor. The cold concrete made his body tense, shiver. Wasn't even aware. Where was he ? Where was he again ? Again ? Did it happen again ?

Confusion pulling his body up, it'd take a few moments to realize where he was. He hadn't fallen asleep outside the doctor's office, not in the reactor. No. He made the note, that metal was more comfortable than concrete.

Cat like stretches made his muscles burn in soreness. Feet skidding along, ears picking up murmurs of conversations. Which initiate got laid, how morning patrol involved getting burned in the ass by a laser rifle, how Lyon's cough wouldn't go away and that it was worrying.

“I'm leaving.”

No one was around to hear it. Or, no one cared to pay attention.

Sarah fought him on his decision, but he walked away nonchalantly. She blew air up at the stray strands of her bangs, frustrated with the only prick of a teenager who could help them. He was fine with that, he was fine with leaving her stuck and frustrated.

The walk was quiet.

The walk was long.

Only noises of rustling grass, the crumble of destroyed buildings, kicked up pebbles, creaking trees, to keep him company. Dogmeat was back home in Megaton, he left her there, she was pregnant, and he'd like to have the puppies have a mother, be alive, than to not be at all. He let Wadsworth and Moira care for her. Though, the whole town was fond of her in general. More her than him. He was fine with that.

It was 8 pm by the time he made it to Megaton, making stops and breaks in between. Avoiding conflict, because he was not in the mood for destruction— and was low on stimpaks. He should have resupplied before leaving. His fault.

8:02 when he opened the door, 8:03 when Dogmeat and her swollen belly waddled up to him, to lick him, “hello hello hello, I missed you !” tail wagging in pure happiness. Nothing so pure as a dog's happiness and loyalty.  
8:04 to reach the bed, and sleep, again, but this time he'd know where he'd be. He would, he would.

He did. 3 am, 3:28 specifically.

The stairs always had an uneasy creak to them. But he wouldn't complain. His bare feet tapping on the floor, woke Dogmeat up, he shushed at her to go back to bed. She ignored him and followed him to the kitchen, and then to the couch. Resting her head politely on his lap. As he sat, a cola in his right hand, shaking.

He talked to her, as if she understood, what human pain was. 

“You don't understand a word I'm saying don't you girl ? You don't have to respond, it's okay.”

His cola was lukewarm and flat by then. He didn't care. He was fine with it.


	3. The perfect time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> altogether tragic, altogether, miserable missed opportunities.

Late. Late and confused, upset, maybe. Maybe. December 31st. New Years.

11 pm, 11:43 specifically. Vodka and cola, kept him okay. Just okay. Maybe, he was mildly miserable under the facade, but he didn’t press any further into his mind, to figure it out. Didn’t want to.

Lucy West, gleeful, beautiful still even with 4 glasses of vodka in his body, he could still distinguish that. Came up to him, a crooked smile against his cheek, as she told him to liven up, another year in glorious hell. Another year to living, surviving. But it was everything he loathed, nothing to celebrate, everything to fear. Maybe. Maybe he just didn’t see it yet, maybe he never would. He should try at least, Lucy whispered.

11:52, he thought about kissing Dogmeat for New Years, that’d make him happy. A slobbery dog kiss on the face, she wouldn’t care for the connotation, she’d simply care and love, because it was him. Always free and loving. He thought for a moment, on how he wish’d he was born a dog. Maybe.

The drink fizzed lightly from the movement of all the people in the bar, the wood creaking uncomfortably under all the weight of stumbling drunk, euphoric people. Surviving.

Gob was smiling to himself, eyes focused on the radio, hearing Three Dog carol joyfully, elate on past events. He saw a card in his hands, he knew what it was. Carol gave it to him, before he left, in early December. For Gob, she said in her soothing rasp of a voice, he could tell that she missed him. He saw the sad look in her eyes as she said his name. No maybe, but definitely. It made him wonder, if anyone ever- could ever- love him like that.

His lungs burned at the last gulp of the drink, mind going dizzy for a moment, or two.

11:58.

He ambled over to Lucy West. Her blonde hair turned a light brown in the dim lighting, he could smell the whiskey on her breath, as she barked out laughs with everyone else. 

11:59. Maybe, just maybe.  
They had turned to each other, well aware, despite the alcohol lingering in their bodies.

12 am. The bar in uproar, screaming, crying, choking on spit, breaking a table, a chair. Moriarty fighting the riot of happiness.

He fell to Lucy’s shoulder, and cried. And he sobbed. And she let him.


	4. And they—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliest, but always there no matter how lonely you are.

The 1st day of the New Year, 2278. New beginnings. Old ways of living. 

His hand, fell over the bed, fingertips touching the wood, rough, splinters poking out. A wet nose bumped into his hand, Dogmeat, a slobbery tongue to lick the salt and sweat off his hand. Her own way of care and love. He moved his hand up her snout, feeling the nicks and scars that tattered her fur, till he reached her ears. Thumb and index finger rubbing her velvety ears before giving her a good scratch and an ending pat on her head. Her panting, heating his hand up with condensation.

“O Dogmeat, my dear sweet dog. What would I do without you.”

A smile on his face, eyes still refusing to open.

“I'd probably die.”

A swift motion and he sat up, eyes still not open, elbows on knees and head hanging low. Hands running through his hair, grimy, greasy. It took a few moments, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose, before he decided to open his eyes. The brightness catching him off guard, making an already prevalent headache, worse off.

He felt, lonely. Lonelier even. Loneliest ? There was a taste on his lips he was noticing, by the time he reached the fridge.

Whiskey. He was never fond of it. But in that situation he was. 

A kiss. Brief, chaste. A kiss nonetheless. Goodnight, I'm sorry. Pity. But a kiss nonetheless. He thought of the stray strands of her hair that caressed his face, her subtle warmth, how his cold bones shivered in response. He always had a thing for blondes.

He remembered wanting more.

He felt disgusted with himself for a minute or two after the thought.

Curled up on the couch, the powdered sugar of a fancy lad outlining his lips, fingertips buried in the staleness and blanket of it. He stared into the faded pattern of the couch, a shiver down his spine, wiping the leftover powder on the couch itself, as he buried himself into the crook of the cushions. 

A curious snout nipping at his socks woke him up.

He flipped over to look at her, the front of his body shivered, the back of his body eased into warmth.

“I was having a pleasant time till you ruined it. Wallowing in self doubt.”

She looked at him curiously, he scratched behind her ears again, and then she understood. And so did he.

“You should try it sometime.”

The sun relaxed his muscles, comforted his chilled bones. Listening to Manya ramble, made his brain fog over.

A wet nose poking at his shoulder, woke him. They made eye contact, on each other's level. He leaned against the burning metal of Manya and Nathan's house. She cocked her head and yawned in his face. She took him home.

At home he lay in bed, face buried in a yellowed pillow, body clinging to a fraying blanket and the few memories he had of the vault. He laid there for hours.

No curious snout or wet nose woke him. 

When he went downstairs, the floor was covered in blood, and they made eye contact.

“You finally burst, you're a mom Dogmeat, a mother, the best mother to ever live. Time to lay down the law.”

And he scratched behind her ears.


	5. Mother, Oh Mother.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> puppies lead to happiness, music leads to a breakdown

Four. Four am. 4:32 am specifically. Four puppies. Four days into the new year.

Speckled, spotted, marbled, brindled.

Luz, Dulcinea, Soledad, Cordero.

He made her a bed, a nest, out of old blankets and cloth that people from town gave him. For her, for her puppies. Her family. He wasn't included. He didn't mind.

He slept on the couch, to keep watch. He could hear the puppies squirm and yelp every so often. He recalled the first time he tried to pick one up, and how she snapped at him. Not that he was offended, or hurt, or angry over it, he understood. Hands to yourself.

A sudden stream of whimpers and squeaks woke him up, frantically looking over, until he saw Dogmeat in the kitchen lapping out water of her bowl till it was dry. The pups lost and crying without a mother to guide them, though she was only a couple feet away. He laughed at their helpless drama. He refilled her water bowl, and watched her tongue lap it up, and the puppies yowl for her attention. She ignored them.

For breakfast, she got pieces of brahmin jerky and squirrel bits. A mother needs her energy, he whispered to her. She ignored him and scarfed it down. She barked at him for more.

People passed through in and out, as the hours passed. To coo at her, bring her treats, admire her puppies. Ignoring him as they came in, went out, he didn't mind.

Lucy came by, and they sat next to each other, in silence. She handed him something wrapped in cloth before she left. It was a bone. A note attached, said her brother sent it. Suddenly he felt very queasy. Dogmeat gnawed on it all the same. The cloth smelt like her, and her house. Sweet.

By dusk, it was just him and the dogs. Wadsworth hovered near, washing the blood stains off the wood still.

Wadsworth did so for hours. And hours.

The house was quiet, could hear a very late, or very early, sermon from the church happening if he slowed his breathing. His fingers twitched onto the pip boy, eyes scanning the screen, music. Music could help, would help. 

Eyes stop. Eyes blink. And blink, and blink, and again and again. Ignore it. Ignore it, just turn it off, and go to bed. But he didn't. He couldn't.

He sighed. He groaned. He cried. Getting up, he punched a wall, again and again, till the skin on his knuckles split. Leaning onto the wall, he peered over at the door.

3 am, 3:56 am.

Vault 101 Distress Signal.


	6. So It Goes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least, I'm trying not to be a jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Andrés makes a reference to the main character of Slaughterhouse Five

“I'm leaving, Moira will take care of you. I left a note on her door.”

She ignored him. But he saw her look up with sad eyes. He saw it.

Every steep step, every grind of his heel on the dirt, made anxiety spread like venom in his body.

Before he put the code in, he rolled up his sleeves, to hide the blood stains. The vault door opening made his chest cave in, made him want to die. Disappear.

“I'm here.”

And she smiled, tears in her eyes, he hated that. But her smile was so beautiful, more beautiful than Lucy’s crooked smile could ever be. Her dimples showed, she hated them, but he always told her he loved them.

“You’re here.”

They both stood there, holding each other, swaying ever so slightly. He felt bigger now, or, she was smaller. Both. It made him sad. When they separated, he noticed her. Really noticed her. Her details. Her hair had lost its shine, noticeably dull. Hair sloppily pulled into a bun. Bags under her eyes, so tired, so tired. Skin greasy, old sweat beaded up on her forehead, so dreary. Her lips cracked dry, she was biting them, he could see the skin peeling in uneven strips.

She saw his look, the hurt in his eyes. She saw it.

He smiled.

She looked away.

He held her again, she listened to his breathing. Deep inhales and exhales, but his heart told a different story. His heart was racing, but she didn't mention it. 

They sat on the stairs, and stared at each other's shoes. He took the liberty to re-lace hers like he used to, straighten them out, as if they were brand new. She tied his laces together, like she used to.

She took his hands, studied his fingernails, he was biting them again, rough and crude. She squeezed his hands, he squeezed back. Their hands got sweaty. They didn't mind.

“Hey dickweed you're finally back. Took you fuckin long enough.”

“I had things to do.”

They never got along. Butch and him. Never did, never wanted to. Butch flicked his hand at them, beckoning them. Can't stay up here forever love birds, his voice echoed as he descended back down, mocking.

Lovebirds, birds in love.

Neither could fly, neither were free, they disagreed on the notion. They felt more like anchors, at the bottom of the sea. Except, only he saw and knew what the sea was. She hadn't.

It was dark, cold. Guns pointing, watching, scorning in their own way. Just as the people he once knew as friends, acquaintances, spat at him bitterly.

She held him close, she was protecting him, he didn't deserve it, she believed that. He wasn't sure what to believe.

Butch glared, and he glared back. She left him in the office, his dad's. She needed to go do things, needed to see everyone else. The door closed, like he was in a containment, a quarantine. Butch gave him the bird through the window, he did it back. Feeling's mutual. He tapped at the keyboard, he still knew the password, looked through meaningless documents. He stared so long, the veins in his eye burst, bloodshot. He knew people were staring, he turned and briefly saw Susie Mack, glancing every minute. Recalling the time he kissed her at prom, her lipstick stained his teeth. He had a thing for blondes.

The door opened. He didn't bother looking up, he knew who it was. He could tell from the timid steps, and nervous sigh.

“Hi Freddie.” Eyes not even breaking from the screen.

“Hey.”

Freddie rocked on his heels, “you look good.”

He leaned back in the chair, “I've been better.”

He made eye contact with Freddie, and Freddie looked away. Watched Freddie rub his thumb and index finger together, never got rid of the tick. 

“So, despite the shit situation, how are you ?”

Freddie shrugged, murmered under his breath.

“Speak up Gomez.”

“It’s been bad. That's it.”

“That's it. So it goes.”

“So it goes.”

They read Slaughterhouse Five in class one year. They enjoyed the grim reality and surrealism to Vonnegut. The only ones who enjoyed the book at all. Maybe it was how they became friends. 

“Can I ask you something Andrés?”

“Sure.”

“Did—did our—”

“Our ?”

“You know.”

“No. I actually don't.” 

He knew. He knew what Freddie was talking about, but didn't want to talk about it. At all.

“Never mind.”

“Okay.”

In a split second, he was laying on the ground. Face burning with an ache, blood pouring out of his nose.

Freddie punched him out of the chair. He deserved it, he knew he did. Everyone outside in the clinic saw. But he didn't care, he just laid on the ground, as Freddie apologized profusely. Repeating sorry sorry sorry. A broken record upon others.

“No longer Billy Pilgrim are you Gomez ?”

Freddie became quiet, and helped him to his feet.


	7. The ideation of love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're desperate, you're alone, you're angry, you're sympathetic, you're you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short.

The dim shroud of light, that the vault was always kept at, made it hard for him to tell time. 2:52 am, it read on his pip boy, but he just couldn't wrap his head around it. He missed the sky.

Everyone was sleeping, huddled like brahmin in the clinic. He was in the classroom, isolating himself. He preferred it that way, he was sure everyone else did.   
There were eyes watching him. Made his skin crawl.

“Freddie.”

“I'm sorry, again.”

“You said it a thousand times, it's fine, no big deal, swept under the rug.”

“Yeah but—”

“Holy shit, I said it's fine ? Don't get so worked up over it. I'm fine, you're fine. I don't care, I've had worse done to me. We're friends, it doesn't matter Freddie. Fucking Christ Fred. Fucking Christ.”

Freddie sat down next to him, quietly.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. Or call you Fred. I know you don't like it.”

Freddie leaned over and kissed his cheek.

And again, and again. 

And he turned his face. And they kissed, and they kissed. Again, and again.

Freddie still tasted like the mint chapstick he compulsively put on every hour. His lips always smooth, and leaving a film on his.

He stopped this for a reason, before he left. Before his dad left. He didn't think he'd miss it, saw no reason to. Maybe he did, but never wanted to admit it. Didn't want to admit how foul and lonely he was.

He pulled away, left the room without a word. He walked and walked, repeated the same loop, over and over. He found himself, in the reactor suddenly, no memory of walking to it.

Butch lay in the middle of the floor, smoking nonchalantly. It was dark, and it was as if Butch’s cigarette was his North Star.

He joined. Whether Butch wanted him or not.

It was a graceful moment then. Just the two, only Butch's lit cigarette to barely illuminate their surroundings.

Butch said nothing.

He said nothing.

Nothing.

This he liked, this he could get used to.

Butch passed him the cigarette, already half way gone, out of pity. He liked to think, it was symbol of truce. But neither would confront, they let it be. They said nothing.

Only 7 minutes went by, till the cigarette turned to ash. Nothing ever lasts.

They wrestled and punched and choked each other, until the both of them were spitting blood and panting.

They still said nothing. They said nothing as they walked back to the classroom, they said nothing as Freddie wiped his tears away.

They said nothing.


	8. Eventually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's okay, to not be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one feels even shorter, consider it, an interlude

Amata kissed him goodbye, in his dad's office. It got out of hand.

Her father may have been dead, but that was on Mr. Almodovar’s own accord. He was the one who shot the pistol, and it ricocheted back into his chest. Last moments spent, bleeding out on the floor, whimpering over Amata. He couldn’t do anything.

She was fine with it. He knew that. Even if she was fine with it, he wasn’t sure he was.

But it was okay, she and him, they were okay.

She told him, that she would visit. Eventually. And he believed her. He didn't cry. But she did. He felt hopeless. She didn't.

Butch kicked at the door of the office, and said it was time to go or he'd blow the place up. They weren't sure if he was joking or not.

Susie gave him a last glance before he left. Reminded him, that he had a thing for blondes.

Freddie wasn't there.

When they got outside, Butch called him an ego terrorist.

But he didn't hear, he was thinking about Amata’s cherry chapstick. He licked his lips.

Dogmeat greeted them, with an onslaught of growling, because of Butch. But then he gave her a fancy lad, and she went back to ignoring them.

Butch smiled at him, really smiled, genuinely. Perfect white teeth, gleaming. It was the most stupidest thing, he’d ever seen. Idiotic and flawless. Why couldn’t he be like that ? His own smile had dulled, perfect teeth had turned chipped, yellowed oh so slightly. He wanted to punch Butch’s face in, until it was no longer perfect. 

He left Butch downstairs.

But Butch followed him up.

“I call the bed.”

“My house, you sleep on the couch dumbass.”

“I’m the guest of honors, guest of honors deserve the best treatment. I. Get. The bed.”

“Fine, don’t break it.”

“Oh fuck you Santos.”

“Oh fuck you DeLoria.”

At 9 pm, he left to Lucy West’s house, and stayed the night.


	9. Carnal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I get so damn lonely, I could hurt myself and hurt you too.

February, 2nd month into 2278, and resolutions turn to meaningless promises again. The Brotherhood of Steel, was still stuck in place over the Enclave. And he hadn't given either a single thought since he left in December.

The puppies roughhousing every day, Dogmeat patient, as her ears were pulled on and her tail chewed. He made sure to give her extra scratches behind the ear every day. His patience was limited, Butch wasn't quiet, Butch was loud, Butch was rowdy. Butch, was a puppy.  
Butch and him, they had their moments. Yelling into the night sky at the abandoned school, drunk. Or shooting molerats for fun in the heat, teaching the pups how to attack. Dogmeat watching closely.  
Other times they'd slam books on each other's heads, or kick each other in the shins, elbow each other. Scream.  
They had their moments.

Butch came home at 7 pm, yelling over how he made a raider piss their pants. He was sure, it was Butch who pissed his pants actually, because he was wearing different jeans, than when he left. He didn't say anything however.

He indulged Butch, because Butch was a puppy. Idiotic, yet you couldn't help but pay attention to it.

At 10 pm, he went over to Lucy West's house again. It was a routine now. They'd cook dinner together, eat and reminisce about their lives. He'd tell her about the vault, and she'd tell him about Arefu. Back and forth, back and forth. By morning, he left hating himself, and the cycle would repeat.

This time, she had already made dinner. And this time the conversations were quiet. And this time, he left at 12 am. He didn't bother to ask why. He went home and slept on the couch.

At 11 am he woke up, the door was open. He heard Butch, and he heard Lucy. Polite conversation. He went upstairs and laid in bed until the talking stopped. Someone came up the stairs and sat on the edge of the bed. It was Lucy. He felt like his stomach was rotting at the sight of her.

She apologized and said she had finally gotten the ashes of her parents from Arefu the previous day. He told her there was no need for an apology. She kissed his forehead and said goodbye.

Butch told him that he was a lucky man, but he didn't feel so lucky. Nor did he feel like a man. He felt like a boy, wanting his dead mother.

Routine, fell back into place.

And then it was the 14th. And he thought of Amata. And of Freddie. He thought of their chapstick covered lips. He felt sick to his stomach again.

Carnal, his dad called it that. That made him embarrassed, that made him feel like a sick fuck.

“That was the worst thing you could have ever told your hormonal child dad.” 

No one was there to hear it. The house was empty, Butch had taken the dogs to go play with Harden and Maggie.

Just him, in his empty house, in his revolting body.

Lucy had invited him over, but he didn't want to go. He didn't want to see her. 

He sat on the couch and stares at the ceiling, the silence was so loud, it hurt his ears.

Someone knocked on the door. And he opened it. And his heart swelled.

“I told you I'd visit.”

“Te amo.”

And she smiled.


	10. Conscious of no Consequence

He stood outside at 5 am, watching the sunrise. He decided then, he was going to kill himself in a week.


	11. Kumbaya My Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember to pray.

They left at 6 am. Only a note left on Moira's door to take care of the puppies.

He was running, except this time he had no one to run to. Somewhere, maybe, but the thought of it, made him sick to his stomach.

Dogmeat's panting was the only conversation as they walked. Butch smoked the grogginess out of him, one cigarette at a time, he refused to share.

Butch complained every 10 minutes, Dogmeat barked every 22 minutes, he sighed every 24 minutes. Routine.

He didn't know where they were going, the anxiety gnawed at him, he'd prefer to walk blindly. He recognized Arefu as they walked along the river, someone was peering down from the crumbling overpass bridge, but he couldn't make out who it was. 

They walked over rotting logs and tripped over small rocks. 

The MDPL Mass Relay station welcomed them, along with a bullet barely skidding passed Butch's head.

The Brotherhood of Steel emblem was false advertisement, apparently. Butch screamed at him, for making the stupid decision to even leave at all. He didn't reply.

One raider's leg was struck by his laser rifle, Butch shot another in the chest with his hunting rifle, and Dogmeat, precious Dogmeat, tore another's hand off. Routine.

The sun was setting, and splashes of blood stained their clothes. 

They moved the bodies into a pile outside the Relay, and lit it on fire. 

Butch lit a cigarette, “kumbaya.”

He picked a piece of raider meat off his shoulder, “kumbaya.”

Dogmeat howled.

And they howled along with her.


	12. It's just meat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It'll be our secret.

The pipboy clicked from 1:48 to 1:49 am. 

His right calf seering in pain. Bullet cut right through the meat and muscle. Never could escape unscathed, life was unfair in that way. Butch pulled the bullet and bits of lead out. Fingers stained with stale blood.  
Dogmeat tried to lick at the wound, Butch had to smack her snout away. He scratched her behind the ears, to tell her he was okay. She didn't believe him.

“Do it quickly.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Butch injected a stimpak into his calf, it settled uncomfortably, spreading through, sinking in. Butch flicked the needle of the med-x. He scoffed at him, Butch just smiled.

The seering turned to a dull ache. Butch wrapped the wound carefully, his hands meticulous and gentle. It made his heart lurch. It made him hold his breath. He hated it.

“I'm a pretty good doc huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“Easy, didn't mean anything by it. Though you were the son of the doctor, just saying.”

Butch took a gash to the shoulder, the left one, swinging combat knife. Shirt soaked in blood, had to cut it off, had to be uncomfortably close to Butch's skin. He hated it.

Cleaned it, dressed it, a stimpak and med-x. Wasn't so hard, but he could never be a doctor, could never be his father. Didn't have the hands to heal. 

“Not too shabby doc in the making, not too shabby.”

He just grunted.

“Making conversation is all.”

Butch's blood had dried into his skin and under his fingernails. It felt, oddly domestic. Sitting side by side, a small fire the only light surrounding them, the scent of burning flesh, Dogmeat laying nearby. Domestic.

Butch found a bottle of vodka left over. Asked him to open it, even said please. 

They passed the bottle of vodka back and forth. Back and forth.

The pipboy clicked from 2:10 to 2:11 am.

“Hey, nosebleed.”

“Don't wanna.”

“Don't care.”

He rolled his eyes. 

Butch put the bottle down.

It was simple and brief.

“You taste like death.”

“You taste like sadness.”

They kissed again, and again. It was more enjoyable than kissing Freddie Gomez, but not as warm as kissing Amata. Nothing else better to do. Nothing else. Butch nipped at his bottom lip, and made it bleed, and licked up the blood trickling out. It made him feel like a piece of meat. But he didn't stop it.

It got out of hand. And it hurt.

Dogmeat kicked in her sleep.

They shared a cigarette.

“Did you notice that one raider with the nice tits?”

“Blonde one ? Yeah. They were nice.”

“They were.”

“Too bad she's burning now.”

“Too fucking bad.”

“So it goes.”


	13. Mutual tolerance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am not your savior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from previous chapter, same night, etc

He was drowning. Desperation, awkwardness, so this is how he would die. His lungs engulfed with burning sea water. It was closing, it was closing in, closing in.  
Dark.

Butch elbowed him in the ribcage. Startled him awake. Butch's eyes were closed, but he knew Butch was awake.

“Fucking dick.”

“You're the one who kept murmuring in your sleep. Wouldn't shut the fuck up and let me sleep.”

It was cold. The fire was low. Butch pulled him close by the hem of his shirt, choked him a little. 

He nosed into Butch's armpit, he didn't care for the smell. It was too cold to care.

“When's the last time you bathed?”

“Thursday, maybe.”

“It's Sunday.”

“And?”

He just drummed his fingers on Butch's ribcage. And Butch pinched his arm. 

He cried, his tears welled up and stained Butch's skin. He dug his nails in, watching them form indentations slowly. Butch smacked his hand away. He smacked Butch's stomach, hard. It left a mark, red and hot.

Butch laughed, and so did he. Uncontrollable. Almost on the verge of cackling.

His laughs got quieter and his crying only got louder. Butch could only let him cry until he couldn't anymore, and kneaded into his shoulder. A semblance of comfort.

This time, he wasn't drowning. It was just dark.

By morning, they only felt sore. Butch put a new shirt on. He replaced his old bandages with new ones. It never happened.

They left the bottle of vodka.


	14. Show you're mine, for the lucky eyes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He held me by the hand, and I fell for it again. He whispered out my name and my heart did nothing.

Butch was holding him under the water, choking him, drowning him. The bubbles escaping his mouth slowed second by second. His hands could barely pull and drag on Butch's shirt. 

But then Butch turned into Lucy West, and then she turned into his dad. 

And then he woke up. Staggered more like it. Jolted.

The pipboy clicked from 9:02 to 9:03 pm.

They had walked Northeast for a while, till they found Reclining Groves Resort Homes. More than a couple miles, long hours of walking, a mediocre place to rest for the night. Better than raiders.

A decaying house with a caved in second floor served as shelter. They dragged a bed in from a razed house. Butch said the bed was his, but he knew Butch was lying. Cozy, smelled of dust and mold, and Dogmeat's breath.

At 9 pm, it was raining. At 9 pm, Dogmeat growled for a minute or two, and then settled back down. At 9 pm, Butch punched him in the arm for waking him up.

The sleeping back barely fit the two of them, but they made it work. Big spoon, little spoon, begrudgingly. Butch forced him to be the little spoon.

He felt Butch sigh against his back, and it made the hairs on his neck stand up. He pressed down on Butch's fingernails one by one. Butch took his hand away and pinched him on the neck. This time it was his turn to smack his hand away.

He felt Butch smile.

The rain spattered sporadically, hard then soft, vice versa, soft then hard. Back and forth. It made him feel uneasy. It made his bones shiver. Butch tugged him closer.

He shouldn't have turned on his right side, facing Butch but he did. And Butch shouldn't have brought their lips together, but he did. 

And it got out of hand.

The pipboy clicked from 8:31 to 8:32 am.

Butch had him pinned, hands on his throat. Yelling at him to stop running, along with other obscenities. He said okay. And Butch's grip on his throat lightened.

Butch left and smoked in the middle of the deserted street.

His throat felt sore, and burned ever so slightly. It would bruise.

They packed up. And walked Southeast. Dogmeat chased after molerats and bloatflies. 

They walked into Canterbury Commons, and laughed at the shitshow that was there. Laughed till they cried and crumpled over to the ground. The locals just shook their heads.

They walked South. Through the collapsed metros. 

They ended up in Rivet City. 

They rented two separate rooms.


	15. Saint Jude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patron saint of the lost causes

He hated that he thought about Butch at night, he hated that he thought about his distant yet warm blue eyes. Blue as the sea in a pre war post card. It made his skin crawl. It made him want to beat his knuckles bloody.

He saw Butch invite Vera Weatherly into his room, when he was coming back from the Muddy Rudder. 1 am. But the alcohol mingling with his blood and mind, told him to ignore it. But he couldn't. 

He brought Dogmeat onto the bed, even though Weatherly said no pets on the bed. He could care less, she could burn in hell for all he cared now. She could burn in hell with Butch. They'd be happy together. Together.

He'd bought a new pack of cigarettes in the market today. No smoking allowed either. He used the bed as an ashtray.

Jonas used to call him spiteful, as a joke. But he was sure he was actually telling the truth now. Even beyond the grave.

He finished his 4th cigarette at 2:14 am.

He tore at the packaging of the cigarettes, keeping his hands busy, anger management. He couldn't drown the sounds out. The walls on this rusting tin can vibrated and echoed so fucking well. Too fucking well.

He thought of Amata.

He wanted to kill himself in shame immediately after the thought. He wanted to vomit.

He thought of Lucy.

It was tolerable, but the pit in his stomach didn't budge and he still wanted to vomit.

He tried to not think of Butch.

He tried.

He poked at Dogmeat's jaw, she bit his hand softly. He felt her pointed teeth and touched her gums. Saliva covering his fingers. He wiped it on the bed. Keep your hands busy, he repeated internally over and over.

He took apart his 10mm pistol, cleaned every inch and crevice, and put it back together. He emptied and organized his pack 5 times, each time differently. He pinched at the extra skin on his knuckles and joints. Pulled at his eyebrow hair, his eyelashes. Picked the dirt out Dogmeat's claws. Busy, busy, busy.

It was 3 am.

He hated how desperate he was, he hated how aware he was, it was carnal, and he hated it. 

Disbelief, and he hated it.

Jealousy, and he hated it.

Sorrow, and he hated it.

He hated it.

He was in Saint Monica’s Church. How did he get here ? He couldn’t remember. 

Saint Monica, the patron saint to lost children. Lost, he was lost. He’s been lost his entire life. He laid out on a bench, just him, just his thoughts. No echoes. No fucking echoes. 

His hands were warm, human touch. Father Clifford sat next to him, holding his hands gently. A rosary snaked through their hands.

“Good morning, I thought you would want company when you woke up.”

His mind still in a stupor from sleep, his body ached from how it slept on splintering wood of the bench.

“I—I’m sorry Father.”

“Do not apologize, your spirit needed rest and came where it needed to be.”

He felt a tear streak down his cheek, and another, and another, and another.

Only the hushing and comfort of Father Clifford’s voice to drown out the echoes. The shame.


	16. We are doomed, we are beautiful.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You kiss my neck, I whisper in your ear: this is my downfall

The air felt different, the atmosphere— himself, maybe. Condensation beaded on the walls shined under the lights, security guards laughed not a single scowl on their face. The ocean, was calm.

It had barely passed 5:05 am. His pipboy ticked, 5:06. 

His hand swept the cigarette ashes off the bed, collecting on the floor. The floor cleaned of any ripped and crushed trash, a semblance of homemade therapy, anger management. 

The ocean waves lightly echoed through the halls. 

Dogmeat spread out comfortably. He pushed her over, like a cement block on the ground. She flicked her tail at him, he squeezed her dry nose, she sighed—too tired to fight. 

He crawled under the covers. He waited.

And he waited.

Footsteps could be heard outside, passing at different tempos. People were waking up. 

He got tired of waiting.

He kicked at the door. It echoed the halls. No one answered. 

“I'm leaving.”

No reply.

“I'm not fucking waiting for you.”

The door opened, “then fucking go.”

So he left. Him and Dogmeat. 

Each step fell heavy. The sunrise blending with the morning mist made his eyes hurt, it was too bright. Too bright. 

“Shit.”

Dogmeat whined.

“Shit ! Shit Dogmeat what the fuck am I doing ! What the fuck is the point— nothing ! Nothing's the fucking point, I'm gonna die Dogmeat, I'm gonna die. I know I will. Worms will invade my rotting stomach and I'll turn into fucking dirt.”

Dogmeat barked.

“I hope my heart goes first.”

In the distance he saw raiders laughing at him.

He kept walking.

As soon as he entered the crumbling walls, Sarah gave him an earful. He noticed more gray in her hair than before. 

He told her she looked good, she pinched his cheek till tears pricked his eyes.

“You look horrible.”

He couldn't argue with that.

“Also, Dr.Li wanted to see you before she left. She's in the archives, don't keep another woman waiting or I'll break your wrist.” She smiled.

She had a really stunning smile.

He was sure Dr.Li was never fond of him. Treated him like a parasite. Virus. Something dislikeable. He remembered the face she made, when she remarked on how he looked like James.

She told him to go to Vault 87, to get the GECK. Not for her, not for James, for Catherine.

She hugged him. Like a mother would. Overbearing and loving. It made him want to cry, but he didn't.

She said goodbye.

He was sure Dr. Madison Li, was in love with his mother once.

Rothschild gave him a route, Lamplight caverns. All the way in the corner. Wouldn't even notice it.

Sarah saluted him as he left, and he smiled. His smile wasn't as stunning as hers though.

He was back at Rivet City, he wasn't sure why. Crossing the river here would take longer. Coming back, already made the trip longer.

But he saw someone standing on the bridge. It was Butch, of course. Who else would it be. They just stared at each other.

Butch came down, slowly, each step careful. It made his blood boil, waiting, but Butch already knew that. 

“So.” Butch chewed on a toothpick.

“So.” He shrugged his shoulders.

It was expected. A fist to his face. Hard enough that he lost balance, back flat on the ground. He grimaced, sighed. Butch's weight on top of him, keeping him in place. One hand on his chest, the other pulling his hair. Didn't fight it. Screamed in his ear, about deserting him, being a dumbass, something else. Other insults. Didn't fight it, because Butch makes him wait, always wait.

And then Butch got quiet. And the grip in his hair loosened, and fell down to his jawline.

“I hate you, I really fucking hate you.”

Butch smiled, “feeling’s mutual dipshit.”


	17. The landscape before you looks just like the edge of the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To another sea's shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disregard any chapter beyond 16, they were all trash. we're moving towards something different. something very Andrés. Of course.

Late Winter was worse than late Summer and Fall combined. 

 

The sea casting out frigid winds onto land, foam left on the shore transforming into shards of frost. Fingers always cold, toes even worse off. The constant cloud of carbon dioxide and such breathed out of nostrils and mouths, whether inside or outside. Bones seeped with coldness, a shiver you couldn’t get rid of.

 

It fucking sucked.

 

Rivet City, right on top of the ocean on rusted metal, was the worst of it.

 

His cheek was bruising he could feel it, sore against the cold wind. Butch had no apologies to give or regrets, no he didn’t care the slightest. It wasn’t his problem, why would it be. 

 

Not that he was even mad over it. 

 

He tapped his fingers against the table. Butch pulled gristle out of his teeth. Contemplating.

 

Belle Bonny offered soup, today’s special. Both declined politely, they’d rather sip on their beers quietly and loathe each other’s company. All the while, still desperate for it.

 

The subtle crash of waves shook the metal of the ship in vibrations.

 

His mind rolled over everything that had happened within the past day, weeks, months. Today especially. He thought of Madison Li’s plea, maybe it tugged at his heart in the moment but now he was away. Now he wasn’t a son, he wasn’t an heir or prince on a plight for revenge. There was no incentive for such. It was a load of bullshit.

 

Bullshit. It was all fucking bullshit. His dad, his mom, the project. Everything concerning it. It wasn’t his burden. Why would it ever need be.

 

Duty corrupts morality. Revenge the same. 

 

All the same.

 

A snap of fingers made him flinch, Butch with an unamused drawl, asking if they would stay here till they died or move on.

 

Moving on, sounded a lot better. Than staying in the past. 

 

Maybe his dad could’ve used the advice.

 

Maybe he should too.

 

He waited outside for Butch, surely flirting with Vera Weatherly as he checked out. Predictable, on both parts. He still didn’t understand the predictability of his jealousy though.

 

Maybe he didn’t want to.

 

Dogmeat’s claws scraped against the bridge like raindrops shuddering on leaves. 

 

Cold wind climbed up his back.

 

The tide jumped onto shore.

 

Maybe they should have waited for better weather, but that, was unpredictable.

 

When Butch stepped out, the wind settled. The waters calmed.

 

Strange.

 

Butch’s eyes looked like the same misty color of the ocean.

 

Chilling and uninviting, but always there.

 

And sometimes he wanted to jump right in.


	18. What right do you have, to have nightmares about me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate the stench of coffee on your breath, and I hate to feel it's warmth on my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys ! Cease and desist.

The cold winds flying through the Wasteland, only getting worse as the sun went down. Butch cursed as he rubbed his hands together for any friction of heat. Dogmeat burying her nose between her paws, curling into a ball. 

 

All three clustered together under a ruined church, the second floor creaking with every minute, as if it could topple down any second. 

 

Staying in Rivet City, would have been the smart choice, maybe. The ordinary cautious one. But neither him or Butch we’re ordinary. It didn’t bother him. For the time being.

 

“Nosebleed, remind me, why ?”

 

“Why what ?”

 

The small fire crackled in front of them, a sharp popping that made his ears sting. Just like Butch’s voice did.

 

“Why—why did I decide to leave Rivet City, for you.”

 

“Ask yourself that question, not me.”

 

Butch scoffed, and that made him smile.   
“Better than being in the vault.”

 

He only raised an eyebrow to Butch’s comment.

 

“What ? It’s true.”

 

“Hardly.”

 

“That’s just because you’re sad about your little cute girlfriend.”

 

Now it was his turn to scoff, and for Butch to smirk in contempt.

 

Dogmeat huffed between them. He rested a hand on her cool fur, fingers running through slowly, a semblance of heat right at his fingertips. Butch did the same, running their fingers right into each other.

 

He wanted to flinch away.

 

His fingers rested on top of Butch’s knuckles, and Butch’s the same with his. 

 

Neither said anything. Neither wanted to.

 

Butch’s lips were cold and cracked.  
Somehow they’d always come back to the same spot, in desperate times. The motivation behind it, behind repeating it over and over, was always a mystery to the both of them.

 

He wasn’t sure if Butch enjoyed it, but he did, a little. Something, he’d never want to admit to himself at all. Acknowledge, confront; no it was better to ignore it.

 

It meant nothing.

 

Butch kissed his cheek.   
He wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

The fire settled between them and so did the howl of wind. Untangling of hands and back into coat pockets, lips breathing out into the cold once again.

 

It was quiet.

 

He could smell the menthols from Butch's breath and hair, it had left a stale taste in his mouth, stuck to his skin, his mind. Almost feeling the urge to take it all in, to gulp all of it down till there was no more. Till Butch could not breathe.

 

A thought that was almost sadistic, selfish, scratching at the back of his mind. Something he wanted to keep all to himself, just for the sake of it. 

 

To tear Butch apart from the outside.

 

His thoughts raced, and raced, and his eyes wandered towards the crumbling ceiling above him. 

 

A slow realization, an unwanted one. 

 

His throat became dry, voice cracking slightly against the air, “what am I going to do without you ?”

 

Butch cocked an eyebrow, rolling his eyes only a little.

 

“You've fucking ruined me Butch DeLoria, you're a parasite.”

 

Butch clicked his tongue, “if you say so. If that's what you want to believe.”

 

He wanted to crawl inside the Earth and hide.

 

“At least we both know we'll never leave each other.”

 

He rubbed at his eyes, dragging his eyelashes down along. He hated how he found comfort in the comment.

 

He hated it, but couldn't decide if he hated Butch or himself more.

 

It was better to ignore it.


End file.
